


Freddy VS Logan

by kenchang



Series: Old Man Logan [3]
Category: A Nightmare on Elm Street (Movies 1984-1994), A Nightmare on Elm Street - All Media Types, Wolverine (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 05:32:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18309191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenchang/pseuds/kenchang
Summary: It's steel against steel as Logan, the retired superhero with the adamantium claws, gets a visit from Freddy Krueger, the supernatural serial killer with the finger knives.





	Freddy VS Logan

**Author's Note:**

> Some of us get triggered at versus stories when our fandom loses the fight. Keep in mind that this is only fan fiction, so these aren't the REAL Freddy and Logan, and that there will be character breaks.

I ride my motorcycle on an empty street, late at night, not sure where I'm headed or what I'm running from. I only know that if I stop moving, I start hurting. I'm a mutant. Was once known as the superhero, Wolverine. Now, I just go by Logan. I have a healing factor that miraculously repairs any injury I sustain…on the outside. Inside, my soul is beaten, bloodied, and rotting.

But in spite of my superhuman endurance, even I have my limits. Still gotta eat and sleep, so I stop over at the cheapest motel I can find in Elm Street. Remember reading about this place in the newspaper before. Something about a pedophile or serial killer burning to death. Not sure I got my facts straight. Guess he had it comin'. What was his name? Fred Krueger, I think. Doesn't matter.

I chain the bike, walk inside, pay for a room, and ask the receptionist for directions to the closest bar. Already, I can feel the pain creeping at me from somewhere in the back of my mind. And getting drunk is the only cure for it.

#

I drink alone on a stool by the counter. Not lookin' for company tonight. The music's nice and the bartender's friendly enough. Easy on the eyes, too. She may have been flirting with me a little. Or maybe she's just doing her job. I don't know. After about an hour, I buy a bottle of whiskey to take back to my room.

#

Already properly soused, I still drink a little before falling into bed without bothering to take my clothes off. I close my eyes, but before sleep can take me, I'm disturbed by the sudden sound of a motor chugging. I angrily stomp across the floorboards. Except when I swing the door open, instead of the hallway, I find what looks like a large boiler room. My heightened olfactory senses are instantly assailed by the stench of fumes. But that isn't the only thing I'm smelling. There's also the familiar stink of death.

I turn around and the doorway to my room is gone. The whole fucking motel is gone! It's just me in the middle of this hot, stinking boiler room! Then my hair stands, and I clench my teeth from what's similar to the irritating sound of nails on a chalkboard. A few seconds later, a man in a hat and striped sweater reveals himself from behind the steam.

"Who the fuck-?", I begin. Then I see the horrible scars and burns all over his face, and I put two and two together. "Fred Krueger?"

"Aw, you've heard of me. I'm flattered. I've heard of you too, Wolverine," he tells me in a sarcastic tone. "Usually, I only go after teenagers. So I'm very, very, very late coming for you, old man. But with our similar styles, how could I resist?"

He raises his hands, showing off a pair of gloves with blades attached to the fingertips.

"I'm not entirely sure how I got here or what's goin' on," I respond. "But I'm not one to back out of a fight."

I pop out the claws, six inch blades that I can extend through the gaps between my knuckles, three on each fist. They don't scare him. If anything, he seems excited.

He lunges at me and starts swinging wildly with his finger knives! His attacks are slow, clumsy, and predictable. I easily dodge, parry, or deflect every one of them. He said that our styles are similar. They're not. He fights like a madman. I'm a trained samurai.

I duck under his last attack and use the claws on both my hands to rip him an instant C-section! He shrieks and stares with wide eyes at the blood gushing out of his abdomen. I swing my right fist upward and cut three deep, red, diagonal lines across his face! He screams and staggers backward, his hand on his bleeding face. He tries to counterattack, blindly swinging his other hand at me. I meet his attack with one of my own, and I lop his arm off just under the elbow! Blood squirts out from the stump. He screams again. I shut him up with a spin kick to the mouth that knocks him flat on his back.

He just quietly lies down there for a couple of seconds. Then, to my surprise, he sits back up, spits out some teeth, and casually says, "You know, this is not how things played out in my head earlier. I'd give you a hand, but I've only got one left."

I say nothing. He stands and dusts himself off. Then he gives me a wicked grin and says, "Wanna see a magic trick?"

Suddenly, his arm grows back! And it's not like my healing factor. It doesn't slowly regenerate. It instantly grows out whole from the stump! And the really weird thing is, the glove and the shirt sleeve grow back with it!

He swings this brand new hand at me. I'm caught off guard by the confusion, but I still manage to defend myself. His knives rip into my forearm instead of my face. Then he thrusts his foot into my stomach, and I fall on my ass. I flinch when my back gets singed on one of the many hot metal pipes. But that's not even the worst of it. The wound on my forearm, it isn't healing!

"Superpowers not working, hero?", he taunts me. "Welcome to your worst nightmare."

I just stare at him for a few seconds, then laugh.

And I can see in his ugly mug how my laughter has both confused and insulted him.

"You think this is my worst nightmare?", I ask. "Bub, this isn't even close."

He looks beyond me, like he's watching a TV from a window across the street. I can't explain it, but I can somehow feel him probing my mind. My mind's been probed before. Except this guy's no mutant psychic. He's some kind of demon. He looks into my past, sees all the loved ones I've lost, the people I failed to protect, and all that rotten guilt I carry around because of it. He winces like he just had a taste of some really bad food.

He looks at me and almost sympathetically says, "You don't need me here. You have enough nightmares."

He turns and, with his head hung low, walks back into the smoke.

"Hey, where do you think you're goin'?", I snarl, forcing myself back on my feet. "You think I need your pity? Come back here and finish the fight, you son of a bitch!"

With teeth and claws bared, I leap after him!

#

I wake with a start in my bed at the cheap motel room. I sit up and check my forearm. It's fine. Either my healing factor fixed it, or it was never injured in the first place. My guess is it's the latter.

It was all just a dream. And a damn fine dream at that. Nothing helps me vent out my frustrations like a good fight, real or otherwise. I almost reach for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, when I realize that I don't need it.

I lie back down, smile, and sleep soundly.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
